8. Kristen
KRISTEN
I wake up and wait for it. The fear, the tightness in my chest, the immediate need to check every door and window before my feet touch the floor.
It doesn't come. At least, not the way it usually does.
I'm still anxious. A part of me always is now, a background noise I've stopped trying to turn off. But this morning, there's something else sitting next to it. Something warmer.
I check the time. 6:12. I slept all the way through the night, and I can't remember the last time that happened.
My mind immediately goes to last night, like a continuation of something that happened while I was sleeping.
Logan Maxwell ate dinner with me, his eyes still red from pepper spray, which was somehow the funniest thing I'd ever seen.
I smile even now. I'm evil. And I told him about my dad and about the man I left in secret, but he didn't flinch.
He didn't try to fix it, make it about himself, turn it into advice, or tell me what I should have done differently. He just listened.
Back in med school, every conversation we had was a competition.
Who could be sharper, quicker, more right.
If someone had told me ten years ago that Logan Maxwell would sit quietly at a Mexican restaurant and just let me talk about the worst years of my life without interrupting once, I would've laughed in their face.
But that's what he did. He listened. He offered support without trying to take over, and when I couldn't say any more, he didn't push.
And then he drove me home! Waited in his car until I was inside to make sure I was safe. I didn't ask him to do that.
Turns out I might have been wrong about Logan. Lately, I've been seeing so many sides of him I didn't know about. And my heart is doing something stupid every time I think about it—which is annoying because I don't have time for this. He's my attending.
I get ready. I make coffee, drink it at the counter, pack my bag, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm actually looking forward to my shift.
I get to the hospital so early that only the night shift nurses and the coffee machines are awake.
I change into my scrubs and head toward the residents' lounge, where I see Logan coming from the other direction.
White coat on, coffee in hand, glasses pushed up, reading something on his phone.
Same as always. Except today, I don't turn around, duck into a supply closet, or suddenly remember something I need to do on a different floor. I just keep walking.
He looks up when we're a few feet apart. Our eyes meet, and he nods.
"Morning, Dr. Portland."
"Morning, Dr. Maxwell."
His voice is warmer than it used to be. Just slightly. But I catch myself almost smiling, and I let it happen. It feels strange and good at the same time.
"How are the eyes?" I ask.
He lowers his glasses an inch and looks at me over them. His eyes are red around the edges. "Functional. I had to explain to a nurse why I looked like I'd been crying all night."
"What did you tell her?"
"Allergies."
"And she believed that?"
"Immediately. Didn't even blink." He pushes his glasses back up. "Apparently, no one in this hospital can picture me having emotions."
I press my lips together. "I really am sorry."
"You can stop apologizing. I've decided to consider it a bonding experience."
"A bonding experience."
"We went from rivals to attacker and victim to dinner companions in a single evening. That's efficient, even for us."
I shake my head and keep walking, and he keeps walking, and that's it. Yet I replay the encounter all the way to the lounge.
Priya is already seated when I get there. She takes one look at me and tilts her head.
"What's different about you?"
"Nothing."
"No, something's different. You look..." She narrows her eyes. "Relaxed. Did you sleep well? Did you eat something good? Did you get laid?"
"Priya."
"I'm just asking. You walked in here smiling. That's new."
"I wasn't smiling."
"You were. I saw it." She hands me a coffee even though I already had one, and I take it because there is nothing like too much caffeine.
"Also, did I just see you and Dr. Maxwell talking in the hallway?
Like normal people? Without you hiding behind a chart or him interrogating you about splenic lacerations? "
"We said good morning. That's it."
"That's not 'it'. Two weeks ago, you avoided him like the plague. Now you're making conversation in the hallway? Smiling! Is the war finally over?"
"There was no war."
"There was definitely a war. I have witnesses." She grins. "But seriously, I'm glad. Whatever happened, you seem lighter today."
I smile. "It's what happens when I get a full eight hours of sleep. That's more of a miracle to me than not arguing with Dr. Maxwell."
Priya laughs. "Fair enough. Let's go. I have a feeling today's going to be a long one."
We head to rounds.
The morning is good. I answer questions without hesitation. I speak up. When Logan asks me about the management of a tension pneumothorax, I answer clearly and completely.
"Needle decompression at the second intercostal space, midclavicular line, followed by chest tube placement."
He nods and moves on, and it feels normal now. Like this is just what we do. He asks, I answer, nobody dies of awkwardness.
At one point during rounds, he's explaining a complex case to the group and he pauses briefly, scanning the chart before continuing.
His eyes are still a little red. He catches me looking and gives me the tiniest head shake, as if to say don't you dare laugh right now, and I have to stare at the floor for a solid five seconds.
I work a case with Priya after rounds, a gallbladder that needs to come out, and we prep the patient together.
"So walk me through the critical view of safety," she says while we're scrubbing in.
"You need three things before you clip anything.
The hepatocystic triangle has to be cleared of fat and fibrous tissue.
The lower third of the gallbladder needs to be separated from the liver bed so the cystic plate is visible.
And you need to clearly identify only two structures entering the gallbladder: the cystic duct and the cystic artery.
If you can't confirm all three, you stop and reassess. You don't clip blind.”
"You're good at this, you know? The teaching part. You explain things like you actually want me to understand, not like you're showing off."
I smile. "Thanks, Priya."
We get through the case fast. The patient does well. Priya high-fives me in the scrub room after, and I high-five her back awkwardly. She gasps.
"She high-fives! She smiles! She makes conversation with Dr. Maxwell! Who are you and what have you done with Kristen Portland?"
"Shut up."
"Never. This is the best day of my life."
At lunch, I sit in the cafeteria and eat an actual meal instead of grabbing something from the vending machine and eating it over a chart.
I text Priya about a patient we're sharing, check the afternoon schedule, and think about Logan's red eyes and his deadpan 'allergies' excuse.
I smile into my sandwich, and I don't stop myself this time.
This is what a good day feels like. I'd almost forgotten.
In the afternoon, I'm with Walter.
He's having a good day, putting real weight on both legs, his grip on the walker steady and his steps more even than they've been all week. I'm walking beside him, one hand near his elbow, coaching his pace.
"Slow and steady, Walter. You're doing great."
"I know I'm doing great. I don't need you to tell me."
"Then I'll stop."
"Don't you dare."
We make it halfway down the hall, and he's focused, really working, but then he glances sideways at me like he's just remembered I'm here.
"The couple in 4B were going at it again this morning."
"Walter."
"She brought him the wrong brand of pudding. He said she never listens. I give them six months."
"You're supposed to be focusing on your recovery, not eavesdropping on other patients."
"Doc, I've been stuck in this ward for two weeks. Eavesdropping is my recovery."
I shake my head but I'm smiling. "Let's just focus on getting you better, okay? You have a mild PE. We have to get that fixed. One more lap."
"Fine. But only because you asked nicely."
We turn at the end of the hall and start back. He's come so far since that first day when he wouldn't even stand for the physical therapist. I'm going to miss him when he's discharged.
"You know," he says, "you're the only doctor in this place who doesn't talk to me like I'm already dead."
"That's because you're not dead, Walter, you're just dramatic."
"I'm an old man with a new hip. I'm allowed to be dramatic."
"You were dramatic before the hip."
He huffs. "My daughter says the same thing." I smile secretly. I was waiting for the comparison. He takes another step, then another, his pace confident. "When am I getting out of here, Doc? I've got a garden that's probably dead by now."
"A few more days. If your PT goes well and your labs stay clean."
"My PT is going well. You're looking at it."
"I know. I'm proud of you."
He doesn't say anything to that, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and I count that as a win.
We're midway through his second lap when the doors bang open.
The sound is loud enough that Walter flinches. I turn around, and my body knows before my brain does. Cold washes through me, sudden and brutal, and my teeth chatter.
Miguel is standing in the doorway.
He looks exactly the way I remember: well-dressed, hair slicked back, jaw set, eyes locked on me like nobody else in this room exists.
Weeks ago, he punched a hole through our bedroom door because he said dinner was too cold when he got home.
I stood there and watched the debris fall and thought, this is it.
This is the night it stops being the door.
So, I finally had enough. I packed as much as I could while he was at work the next day, and I left, hoping to never see him again.
And now he's here. In my hospital. On my floor. Standing twenty feet away from me and my patient.
Every survival instinct I have is telling me to run.
David. It had to be David who told him. The text went out, and here he is, and I was stupid to think I could hide.
I was stupid to think a new hospital and a quiet house would be enough to keep him away.
Men like him don't stop looking. They don't let go.
They just wait until they know where to find you.
"Kristen. There you are."
My name in his mouth turns my blood to ice. His voice is loud enough that every person in the ward must be able to hear. The nurses at the station freeze, a patient across the hall turns toward the sound, and Walter's grip tightens on his walker.
He crosses the room in three strides. Before I can move, before I can think, his hand closes around my arm and he yanks me toward him.
Hard. The force pulls my whole body off balance, and the walker slides out from under Walter's hands.
He stumbles backward, his legs buckling, and lands in the chair behind him.
He's okay—he falls right into it—but his face goes white with shock.
His hands clamp onto the armrests. "Hey! What the hell—"
But Miguel doesn't hear him or doesn't care, because his grip is tightening on my arm and he's pulling me farther away from Walter, toward the door.
"You're coming home. We're done with this. You've had your little tantrum, and now we're going home."
His voice fills the entire ward. Everyone is watching. Everyone sees us. His fingers are digging into my arm. I know there will be bruises. I can feel them forming, deep beneath the skin where the bruises will bloom by morning.
I can't move or speak. My body has gone back to the place it learned to go when he gets like this. Still, small. Don't fight it. Don't make it worse. Wait for it to pass. Three years of training that I thought I'd unlearned, and it took him five seconds to put me right back there.
Walter is trying to stand up from the chair. A nurse has rushed to his side. Someone at the station is reaching for the phone.
Then the doors swing open, and Logan walks in so fast his white coat snaps behind him.
Suddenly, every monitor beeping, every machine humming, every person breathing and blatantly staring does not register—because the only thing I can see is his face, and he is looking at Miguel the way I've never seen him look at anyone.
He stops three feet away. His eyes drop to Miguel's hand clenched around my arm.
His voice is a deadly calm.
"Let go of her, or I will break your hand."